


Spinning Tales

by AnnieVH



Series: Queens of Darkness Sitcom AU [9]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friendship, Gen, Humor, UST, pre-rumbelle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6158584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm struggles to write his first article. Belle and Jefferson try to be helpful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> BETA: MaddieBonanaFana

“I cannot believe you retitled it _Bibidy Bobidy Baby_.”

From her sun chair, Ella raised an eyebrow at her brother.

“Scratch that,” Malcolm continued, as indignant as ever. “I cannot believe you rewrote the whole thing and gave me no credit. What happened to thinking I'm a brilliant writer and appreciating my sardonic writing style and my wit?”

“The ones who appreciate you are Mal and Ursula, little big brother,” Ella corrected him. “I merely tolerate you and want to explore your talents.”

“And we never used the word 'brilliant',” Mal said, sitting across from him at the patio table and reading a copy of The Mirror herself.

“Not out loud,” Malcom replied, making her roll her eyes.

“We couldn't very well have _you_ write our first piece for The Mirror, could we?” Ursula argued, too busy checking the social media reaction to even look up from her cellphone. “Our readers love _us_. They have no idea who _you_ are.”

Malcolm huffed, but didn't argue. At the bottom of the page, the article had been signed by _Cruella de Vil_ and _Sea Witch_. Underneath it, in even smaller print, was the only mention of his participation: _with the cooperation of Maleficent and Mr. R_.

“Why do I have to be Mr. R?” he complained, not because he cared, but because complaining felt good and better than admitting that his new business associates had a point.

“Because I needed a random letter and Mr. X sounds tacky,” Mal said.

“If you had chosen a pseudonym already, this wouldn't have been necessary,” Ursula said.

“This shows how committed you are to your work,” Ella pointed out.

Her brother glared at her. “I haven't chosen a pseudonym because I don't want to join in with the Queens of Darkness' trend of paying homage to Disney Villains.”

“You better think of _something_ ,” Mal asked, ever the practical one. “Because I'm writing the Thursday article, but Sunday's is all yours, and it has to be signed with your pen-name. I've asked Belle to prepare a list of suggestions. It will make your life easier.”

Malcolm grunted, “I seriously doubt that.”

Ella said, “I hope you realize what an honor it is to be solely responsible for an article, little big brother. _We_ don't do that all the time.”

“Honor?” Malcolm repeated, baffled. “You told me to write a derogatory gossip article about myself to throw people off. How's that honorable?”

Ella laughed. “Yes. You know, if you girls had reminded me he'd have to do _that_ I'd probably have been on board with the idea from the start.”

“We all had to do it, Malcolm,” Mal explained. “It sounds daunting, but it's actually quite fun. Do you still have the articles we wrote?” she asked Ursula. “He might find them helpful.”

“I'll ask Belle. Ah! Speak of the devil!”

Malcolm turned in his chair to the sound of approaching high heels. Ella's personal assistant came into the patio, glasses of iced tea perfectly balanced on a tray. Without the newspaper pile, she looked quite graceful.

“Alright,” Belle announced, putting down the tray and starting to distribute the glasses. “Lemon iced tea with a slice of lemon for Miss Gold, no ice. Peach iced tea for Mrs. Whale, full of ice. Surprise flavor iced tea for Miss Carroll with a dash of Whiskey, because she's feeling adventurous. And, uhn, hot Earl Gray in a tea cup for Mr. Gold because, and I quote, he hasn't forgotten how to be a proper British man yet and cold tea is a moronic invention.”

“Correct,” Malcolm said, welcoming the tea cup with a rare smile. “Thank you, Miss French.”

“Oh,” Belle said, surprised at getting gratitude for something so menial, instead of the usual condescending smiles. “You are welcome, Mr. Gol-”

“I still fail to see the point of it, though,” Malcolm said, forgetting all about the girl the moment the tea touched his lips. Perfect temperature. “You may very well be _somewhat_ famous in New York, people might care about _your_ lives a bit, but I'm just Ella's brother. I doubt people even know I've moved here.”

Mal said, “They will know. After Saturday.”

“And I do not like this party idea,” Malcolm said, for the fifth time that morning. “I don't understand why we're having a welcome party for me, since I've been here for over two weeks, and I don't see how a party on Saturday night will make people interested in me by Sunday morning.”

Mal gave him a shrug. “We are very efficient, aren't we Ella?”

Ella, however, had been glaring at her brother for the past few seconds. “ _Somewhat_ famous?”

Ursula hissed her teeth. Poor choice of words.

“Uhn, Queens? I just got a text from Jefferson,” Belle told them, before a new fight could erupt between brother and sister. “He's got the pictures you wanted.”

“Tell him to come in,” Ella ordered, still angry at Malcolm. “And take my brother inside so you can start brainstorming. I don't think staring at pictures of a pop icon in lingerie will do much for his brain.”

 

*

 

“Would Stephan be acceptable to you?”

Malcolm looked up from the keyboard and at Belle. “What?”

“Stephan. He's Aurora's father. From Sleeping Beauty. Well, the Disney version, I mean. The original vers-”

“No,” he cut in. “No, Stephan will not do.”

Belle said, “Alright.” And scratched the name on her little notepad with a swift flick of her pen. “How about... Pinocchio?”

“I'm afraid it might hinder my credibility.”

“Good thinking.”

“Also, it's a stupid name.”

Belle sighed and crossed that out too.

“Beast.”

“There's no reason to resort to name calling, Miss French.”

“That's a suggestion. You could be The Beast. As in _Beauty and The Beast_?”

“Sounds more like the name of a pornographic actor from the 1980s.”

“...So yes?”

“No! How would _that_ be a yes?!”

“Just making sure,” she said, quickly discarding another name.

Malcolm sighed and typed down more words, adding “something porn-related” to his short list of writing ideas. So far, it consisted of the word “divorce”, which he had typed and deleted three times already, and the word “broke”, which he hated even more. Maybe he could fabricate some sort of porn addiction.

“Scar,” Belle suggested. “He was quite sassy.”

“He was a gay lion that got eaten by hyenas.”

“Jeremy Irons voiced him, though,” Belle pointed out. “And he has one of the best musical numbers in all of Disney history.”

Malcolm had known that this would be pointless the moment Miss French sat at the table with him and took a little notepad out of her purse, filled with what seemed to be an endless list of suggestions. But this was getting ridiculous!

“Hades is a personal favorite of mine,” she said, and Malcolm actually considered it. Hades. It had a nice ring to it. Lord of the Underworld. Feared and respected. Got to marry Persephone. Wasn't half-bad as far as pseudonyms went. Belle continued, “He's a powerful god, and you can always say it's inspired by Greek Mythology.”

“Where else could Hades be from?”

“Disney movie.”

“Oh, god, not _that_ movie,” he grimaced. “No. I will not be associated with _that_ movie. I'm still not over the inaccuracies.”

To his surprise, Belle agreed, “I know! It was hard to watch, wasn't it? Hades isn't supposed to be a bad guy! And how can you have Hades without Persephone?”

Malcolm nodded, not wanting to encourage the conversation. He stared back at his computer screen and tried not to think about how much his son loved that movie as child. Telling him that it didn't follow Greek Mythology very closely had been pointless.

“It's about becoming a hero, daddy!” he had argued, as if that was enough to forgive the fact that Zeus liked to tell dad jokes, Hera had no personality whatsoever, and Pegasus was in the wrong story altogether.

Belle stretched her neck to look at the screen. “Any good ideas?”

Malcolm pulled it away from her. “Stay out of my writing.”

“Mr. Gold, I'll be the one spell-checking it.”

“You can do that once I'm done. I don't want you interfering with my process.”

“Fine, sorry.” She consulted her list again. “We _could_ call you Facilier. People might even think you're black, it'd throw them off. He has a cane, too.”

“Define me by my disability, why don't you?”

“He isn't disabled.”

“Besides the point.”

Belle groaned. This was harder than she'd first anticipated.

“I suppose I can scratch all seven dwarfs.”

“You suppose correctly.”

“And all the fairies.”

“Immediately.”

“Peter Pan is still an-”

“No.”

“Captain Hook is nice-”

“No.”

“The Crocodile?”

Malcolm opened his mouth to say no, but changed his mind once he had time to process the suggestion more carefully. “...That's actually not that bad.”

“Good!” she beamed. “I'll put it down as a maybe.”

“Perhaps I could say I have a denture,” he mused aloud, staring at his list.

“Do you?” Belle asked.

“No, but I could claim I do.”

“Why would you have a denture look like-”

Malcolm turned an icy stare in her direction.

She turned red and cleared her throat. “I-I mean, yes. You have lovely, uhn, I mean-”

“Hey, Belle?”

She jumped out of her seat and ran to Jefferson before he was fully in the dining room.

“Yes, yes, what can I do for you?”

“The Queens want you.”

“Right, thank you, thank you.”

“Have them teach you some manners while you're there,” Malcolm shouted after her, as she scurried away.

Jefferson greeted him with a “Hey.”

Malcolm didn't bother greeting him back. “Do they actually make the both of you call them Queens?”

“I'm surprised they don't make us bow,” he laughed. “But you can blame that one on Belle, if you'd like. They got really annoyed at the way she kept referring to them by name and title. _Yes, Miss Gold, Miss Carroll, and Mrs. Whale. On my way, Miss Gold, Miss Carroll, and Mrs. Whale. I'm sorry I'm late, Miss Gold, Miss Carroll, and Mrs. Whale_ ,” he recited, in a perfect imitation of Belle's Australian accent. “It was quite funny. But it got annoying.”

“I can imagine.”

“I suppose you're also a Queen now.” Jefferson offered an exaggerated curtsy. “May your reign be long and prosperous.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “And what would you be? The royal squire?”

“I'm their favorite paparazzi. You should see the pictures I just gave them. Maybe they will help you with your, uhn, writer's block.”

Jefferson pointed at the near-empty computer screen. Malcolm turned it away from him, defensive. “Excuse me! This is private!”

“All three items on that list?”

“It's not my fault that writing gossip is _impossible_!” Malcolm exploded. “What would I even say?”

“It depends on the person, really,” Jefferson explained, taking the seat next to him before Malcolm could stop him. “You have to think of something that would annoy you if someone else were to write about it, but that you and your closest friends usually laugh about.” He paused. “I assume that you have close friends?”

“Yes, but who cares?” he pressed, ignoring the remark. “No one even knows who I am. That's what I just don't understand.”

Jefferson shrugged. “Have faith in your sister. She's putting together quite a party to introduce to you to the high society.”

“Ugh,” was Malcolm's only reply. If he wasn't contractually obligated to take part in such events, he wouldn't bother.

Jefferson said, “After Saturday, you can write a whole article about the length of your penis and people are bound to read it. Oh!”

“ _I am not writing a whole article about the length of my penis_!”

“Hey, it's a no-brainer. Everybody loves a good penis joke. Although, that might hinder your dating prospects in the future, depending on which way you go.”

“What did _they_ write about?” he asked, desperate to change the focus of the conversation away from him.

“The Queens? Well, your sister wrote a whole article on how she wore the same outfit twice.”

Malcolm stared at him, waiting for the punchline. “You are joking.”

“Nope.”

“People _cannot_ be that shallow.”

“They can, and they are. She's a fashion icon, your sister. Ella was truly mortified when Mal suggested it, but it was a sacrifice she was willing to make for the greater good. Ursula wrote about this double life she led as a lounge singer in Montreal.” Jefferson laughed. “We had a lot of fun putting that together. We took pictures and everything. It was so convincing that people still ask her if that story was true. And Mal actually took the opportunity to come out as an active member of the BDSM community. It was a very positive, empowering experience, according to her.”

“Right.”

“So you see, they could pretend to be outraged the next day because it was all so _personal_. But it was actually just a private joke. Do you have an interesting talent we can explore? Maybe we could stage something, too.”

“I don't think so.”

“Would you like to come out as any letter of the LGBTQA-”

Malcolm cut in, “Can't I just write about my troubled relationship with my sister? Surely that will be interesting to someone.”

Jefferson thought about it. “Hmmm... it's not _bad_ , but it doesn't have sex appeal. Siblings who hate each other are part of every other reality show _,_ nowadays.”

Malcolm groaned, frustrated. “Wonderful! Then how about I write about her grumpy little big brother who hates everything and everyone? Would that help?”

“Not particularly. Old men are supposed to be grumpy.”

“I'm 45.”

Jefferson blinked. “You look great!”

Malcolm growled, but didn't say another word.

“You know,” Jefferson suggested, “there are certain kinds of gossip that make you look despicable, without actually making you look bad.”

“Meaning?”

“If you were to, say, claim you moved to New York to be with your sister because you were having a shameful, hot affair with a woman half your age in Storybrooke, it would be bound to get people's attention. Everyone loves a good sex story. But when you are a heterosexual male, no one cares that you're a cheating bastard. In fact, that's the kind of thing that boosts your morale.”

Malcolm considered it. Then, his shoulders slumped. “Yes, but I was not having an affair with a woman half my age, in case you haven't noticed.”

“That's the good thing about gossip. You don't need proof. You just need an _insinuation_. Look, I took a lot of pictures of you in Storybrooke, there's bound to be one with a woman in it. You write a whole article about how close the two of you look, suggest an extra-marital affair, maybe a secret family on the bad part of town and _bam_! The next day, you get to act offended that people would _dare_ insinuate something so foul about your person and none will be the wiser.”

“Huh,” Malcolm said, nodding as he thought the suggestion over. “The idea has merit.”

Belle rushed into the room, already breathless. “Oh good, you're still here. They are all very confused by your Anastasia pictures. They're not sure which ones are lingerie, and which ones are just, you know, clothes.”

“For goodness sake, like it's that hard to tell.”

Jefferson got up and left in angry strides.

Belle turned to Mr. Gold to give him a nod on her way out, just to check if he was still mad. But then she realized the way he was looking at her.

“Do you need anything?” she asked.

“Hm?”

“You have a... funny look on your face.”

“It's nothing,” he answered, and smiled rather amicably at her. “Thank you, Miss French.”

Belle regarded him with suspicion, but decided that funny feeling in the back of her head probably meant nothing, and left the room after Jefferson.

Malcolm nodded to himself. Yes. That would do. A random girl might work just fine, but his sister's personal assistant, who worked inside the house, and happened to be young and somewhat attractive? That was gossip worth telling.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gold finishes his article. Belle is not happy about it.

On Thursday morning, the Mirror printed a very well-received article on the _Top Ten Places to Go to This Weekend_ , by _Maleficent_ , with the cooperation of _Cruella de Vil, Sea Witch_ , and _Mr. R._ The list included five different private parties (the first suggestion being Ella Gold's reception to welcome her older brother into New York City), three new nightclubs, an open park where you could walk your Significant Other on a leash, and a very cheeky suggestion to “stay home on Sunday morning and eagerly await Mr. R's first article.”

“You're overselling it,” Ella said, going over the last item on the list one more time. “You don't know if Malcolm's article will be witty and controversial. And I don't appreciate that you said it's going to 'redefine our column for the better'. Our column is fine the way it is.”

“Who cares?” Ursula said, smiling to herself as she stared at her phone, mesmerized. “Have you seen the social media reaction? Mal just set it on fire.”

“What if he can't deliver?”

Mal shrugged at Ella's concerns. “Then the reaction will make him turn his pride down a notch. Lord knows he needs it.”

“Who needs what?” Malcolm asked, coming into the patio with the biggest smile Ella had seen in years.

“You need to turn your pride down a notch,” Ella answered, before someone else had the opportunity sugar coat it with a white lie.

To her disappointment, Malcolm didn't seem one bit disturbed by it.

“And why would I have to do that, when I have all the reason to be proud?” he asked, handing out three neatly printed copies of his own article.

“You finished already?”

“A whole day ahead of schedule,” he announced, very happy with himself. “An entire article about how your little big brother might, or might not, be a creepy old man who ended his marriage of nearly 30 years, just so he could chase his much younger lover to New York, where he probably continues the affair with the blessing of his sister.”

Ella shook her head. “Is that all? As far as derogatory goes, it's not as good as an addiction to porn, but then again, I didn't expect you to-” and then she laughed and leaned closer to Ursula to point at the first paragraph. “Look! He calls himself a perverted cliche with its pants down.”

“You're not sleeping with this woman, are you?” Ursula said, pointing at the picture he had pasted above the article. “Because, as your new lawyer, I'd advise you against advertising it. If your wife's lawyer gets a hold of her, your divorce will get complicated. _More_ complicated.”

“Of course not. I'm not a complete idiot. It's just a random picture Jefferson took when we went to Storybrooke to investigate Ashley Boyd. That's actually your assistant.”

“Is that so?” Ursula said, arching her eyebrows. “Getting cozy with the help, I see.”

Malcolm didn't care to respond to her taunt. In the picture, the profile of his face was clear and unmistakeable, very serious, as a woman leaned closer, seemingly whispering in his ear, one hand on his shoulder, the other pulling at his own hand. Belle's wavy curls and lean frame, combined with the high heels and the colorful dress, left no doubt that she was, at the very least, young. Her face could not be seen, but people could easily assume she was also beautiful, judging by her figure.

He had cropped out the image of Ashley Boyd, shouting abuse and threatening him with a rolling pin. And no one had to know Miss French was actually pulling him away, her face furious, while loudly telling him, “Stop being a stubborn ass, for goodness sake! She doesn't want to talk to you!”

“Have you sent-” Ursula started, but Ella laughed loudly interrupting her. To her brother, she said, “ _His money is remarked to be his best quality_. Alright, you _are_ funny, Malcolm. I'll give you that.”

“As I was asking,” Ursula continued. “Have you sent this to Belle?”

“She's supposed to have gotten it by now. For spell checking.”

“No, I meant-” she started, but then a piercing scream reached the patio. “Well! I don't believe explanations are necessary anymore.”

 

*

 

Ursula came into the living room first, just in time to see Belle storm into the flat, Jefferson following close behind.

“But what happened? Are you okay?” he asked, before turning to Ursula. “She just looked at her phone and started screaming in the elevator. I'm not sure she's alright.”

Belle scanned the room, waiting as the others came through the door. Mal, followed by Malcolm (which elicited a furious “You!” and a pointing finger from Belle), and then Ella, who smiled obliviously and asked, “Ah, Belle darling, finally here. Have you thought of a decent pen name for my brother?”

“Oh, I have thought of _several_ names for your brother, Miss Gold!” Belle said, advancing as if ready to attack him. “With your permission, I'd like to shout some of them right now!”

Jefferson held her back by the shoulders. “Whoa, whoa, easy.”

Ursula sighed, “I thought as much.”

“Miss French,” Malcolm tried, using a very calm tone of voice, which was probably what set her off.

“How _dare_ you?” she screamed. “How _dare_ you write this behind my back? I've been helping you out for two days and not _once_ did you think of consulting me?!”

“Miss French, you are not mentioned by name, I've only borrowed your image because-”

“You have _got_ to be _kidding_ me!”

“What happened?” Jefferson asked, still holding on to her, even though Belle wasn't squirming to get away anymore. “Will someone tell me?”

“Malcolm wrote this hilarious article about an alleged affair that portrays him as an old pervert,” Ella giggled.

“But he used Belle's image to illustrate it,” Ursula explained.

“You wrote an article about sleeping with Belle without her permission?” Jefferson said, horrified. “That's rude!”

“It was your idea!” Malcolm shouted, outraged.

“I said you should find a random woman!” Jefferson shouted back. “I didn't say you should pretend you're screwing your sister's assistant! I mean, she's always in the house! It will look like Ella actually condones it. Not to mention, Belle has a fiance- That's actually much juicier than my idea. I'm a little proud of you.”

“ _Are you now_?” Belle snapped, making Jefferson jump away from her.

“I... no,” he stammered. “No. I am not. That was wrong. So very wrong.”

“Well, I'm _almost_ proud of you myself, little big brother,” Ella said. “That was quite devilish of you. It will make a fine article for your debut.”

“Excuse me?” Belle said, eyes wide with panic. “You cannot print this! I have a fiance!”

“Oh, he never reads the papers, darling. Why worry?”

“His sister reads the papers! Our friends read the papers! Everyone who knows me can see it's me in this picture!”

“Right, I'm sorry,” Malcolm said, but he wasn't used to apologizing very often, so the tone in his voice fell short. “I shouldn't have used your picture without your permission. We can post the article without it, if it makes you feel better.”

“Because the-” Belle looked at the article on her phone. “The 'young little hussy who visited Storybrooke with Mr. Gold two weeks ago' could be _anyone_.”

“For goodness' sake!” Malcolm said, annoyed by her stubbornness. “The article isn't even about you. If anything, it makes _me_ look bad.”

“It makes _you_ look like a middle-aged man with a mistress half your age. It makes _me_ look like a home-wrecking gold-digger who's cheating on her fiance and who only got her job because she was sleeping with you!”

“She has a point,” Mal said. “People expect men to have affairs with young girls. How is this new and original?”

“C'mon,” Ella argued. “Man moves into his sister's flat to continue nefarious affair with her assistant after leaving his defenseless wife?”

Malcolm scoffed. “Defenseless?”

“Play the sympathy card, dear brother,” Ella explained. “If people believe Milah to be an angel, it will make you look worse.” To Mal, she said, “It's the fact that he has my blessing that is the catch.”

Belle stared at brother and sister as if they were crazy, then she turned to Mal, who sometimes sided with her.

Mal said, “We have a rule against stabbing each other in the back, Malcolm. You can't make up gossip about the people in the house. You should have asked for her permission before you started writing.”

Ella gasped as if _she_ had been stabbed in the back. As far as she was concerned, whatever rules they had did not extend to Belle French, the hired help.

Mal raised her hand. “Let me finish. However, I like the way you think. The subject may not be very original, but it has a nice enough twist to get people interested.”

Belle was the one to gasp now. It was met with complete indifference.

“So here's what I think we should do: if you convince Belle to back you up, then you have my blessing to send it to the editor.”

“Oh, this is preposterous!” Ella said. “You're letting my assistant dictate what we write about now? Ursula, back me up here!”

Ursula looked at her friend. Then at Belle, who regarded her with pleading eyes.

She said, “Sorry, I'm with Mal. No backstabbing. Besides, if Gaston breaks up with her, we'll have to put up with her crying for weeks.”

 

*

 

Malcolm closed the door of his sister's study, though it was a mystery to him why Ella would even have a study. In two weeks, he hadn't seen her go in there once. Looking at it now, he doubted it had ever been used. The glass desk that took up most of the space was pristine, but there was nothing on top of it other than office supplies – if Ella wanted to play CEO for a photo shooting, the scenario would be perfect. The interior design followed the same black and white and zebra pattern that was present in most of the rooms, and even the books on the shelves didn't deviate much from the color palette. They had probably been chosen because of it.

Belle stopped by the desk, seething with anger, but no longer screaming. He wondered if she'd dare to sit at his sister's unused chair, but it seemed that Miss French was not as brave as she made herself out to be, because she remained on her feet.

He said, “I suppose I might as well start writing about something else, isn't that right?”

She looked at him, but didn't answer.

Malcolm continued, “I mean, no matter what I say, you've already made it very clear that you will not agree to it.”

“I have to agree to it.”

He blinked at her, taken aback. Well, that had been easy.

“I need this job,” she explained. “There is no saying what Miss Gold might do if I stop this from being published. You saw how much she loved it. I hadn't seen her laugh like that in months.”

“Alright. That's settled then?”

Belle looked at him, eyes turning from furious to pleading.

He understood.

“You want me to pull the papermyself.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Morality? In case you haven't noticed, Miss French, this is journalism. No, it's not even that. You can't expect people in this line of work to have a very strong moral compass.”

“You're new to this,” she pointed out.

“Well, I never had much of a strong moral compass to begin with. I was a lawyer.”

“I'm not asking you to scratch the whole thing,” she conceded. “I'm just asking that you scratch all references to me and pick someone else.”

“And if that were an option, I would do it,” he said. “I don't like being stuck in this room chasing our tails any more than you do. But you're the only one I can use for this story-”

“That is not true,” she argued. “I'm just the easiest target.”

“Listen,” he said, trying to sound reasonable, “I've already told you, I don't have to use the picture. I will keep the article as it is and no one will know who the woman I keep referring to is.”

“The woman who you keep referring to is undeniably me,” she insisted. “You were not even being subtle about it! And to add insult to injury, you even mentioned that I'm engaged. How do you think this will look when my fiance reads it?”

He sneered, “What is he going to do? Come up to me and demand a duel?”

Belle stared at him. “Not everything is about you, you know?”

“I didn't mean-”

“He might break off our engagement, is what I meant.”

“Based on one gossip article?” he chuckled. “How much of a gullible idiot is he?”

Belle crossed her arms over her chest. “Is this a way to get your wife jealous?”

The smile died on his lips in the blink of an eye. His eyes narrowed dangerously at her. “Excuse me?”

“Are you writing this ridiculous story so that your wife will get jealous and stop ignoring your calls?”

“You are out of line, girl,” he growled

“I'm the one who's out of line? That's rich.”

“This is my article and this is my life. As such, I will write whatever it is that doesn't make me look like a complete fool. If your fiance thinks a gossip article is enough to break off your engagement, he's an idiot, but that is not my problem.”

“My friends are not your problem either, I imagine,” she said, coldly. “Nor the fact that the insinuation that I only got this job because I was sleeping with the right person might actually chase me for the rest of my professional life.”

He scoffed. “Do you even know what was your employers' reaction when I showed them your picture?”

“I imagine it wasn't-”

“It was nothing,” he said, making her shut up. “They didn't know it was you. Ella read the whole thing and couldn't put two and two together. You're the girl who brings the newspapers and the iced tea. You are as visible as a ghost. Nobody who'll read this cares who you are. And you're afraid that people might actually remember it some day.”

He laughed, not because it was funny, but because he felt cruel and he wanted to hurt her.

Judging by the look on Belle's face, it was working.

“Trust me, I didn't choose you because you're so memorable, or even...” he indicated her tiny frame with a dismissive wave of his hand, “desirable. I chose you because people might associate you with Ella, and because I had a half-decent picture. If you're offended I didn't tell you, you have every right, but don't go thinking of yourself as someone who matters, because you don't.”

Malcolm stopped and looked at the girl, to assess the damage done. To her credit, she didn't cry; she didn't even look away, staring into his cold eyes with just as much anger. But the confidence that had been on her face just minutes before had been shattered.

Good. Maybe now they could move on.

“You are just as beastly as you sister said you were,” she finally said, surprising him. She didn't sound angry, but... disappointed. As if she had expected him to behave differently, which was a ridiculous assumption. She barely knew him, and he had given her no reason to trust him, quite the opposite.

That disarmed him of his frustration, and the pause that followed felt like she was giving him a last chance. If he wanted to apologize, this would be the moment to do so. But he didn't want to. Why should he? Just because the girl was moderately nice to him?

Malcolm kept his eyes on her, not as icy as before, but equally stubborn, and waited for her to give up first. Eventually, she did.

“Keep your article, then,” she said, heading for the door. When she closed it behind her, Malcolm knew he had won the battle.

Then why didn't it feel like a victory?

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm and Ella have a conversation.

Malcolm didn't follow Belle when she left the study. Perhaps it was cowardly of him, but he'd spent his fare share of time around angry women to know when they should be avoided. It was best to wait until she was sent off on a pointless task. Then she'd have enough time to calm down and see that he was in the right. Or, at least, get over the murderous tendencies she might be harboring.

He was about to venture outside the room when Mal opened the door and peeked inside. “She's gone, Malcolm. You don't have to hide anymore.”

He aimed angry eyes at her and protested, “I'm not hiding! I was being a gentleman and giving her a moment to get herself together.”

“Well, she got herself together, and then she left. So you don't have to worry about that anymore.”

“So she's resgined?”

“Lord no!” Mal giggled. “Belle's made of stronger stuff than that. Besides, she knows she works for a bunch of snakes. It won't be the last time she got bitten.”

She held the door open for him and Malcolm walked out holding his chin up high, as if expecting everyone to judge him for something, though he wasn't sure what. He had done exactly what was expected of him. It said so on a contract.

“So the article will be published, yes?” he asked.

Mal nodded. “Yes. Belle has just informed us that you've convinced her. Though I got the impression you just tired her out.”

“Something like that. Did she agree to spell-check it?”

“I think, and your sister agrees, that it would be in poor taste to bestow that task on Belle.”

“I'm sorry, _Ella_ agreed to that?”

“More like... she was indifferent. But we'll find someone else. You can go revise your article, I have to talk to the editor.”

“I've revised it already.”

“Revise again.”

She smiled as she said that, but Malcolm knew an order when he heard one. He didn't like it, but he wasn't in the mood to fight it right now. Besides, he could always lie about it.

 

*

 

It was the afternoon by the time Ella came into his bedroom. Without knocking, of course, interrupting what had been a long session of staring at the walls, questioning life decisions, regretting his marriage, and trying not to think about Belle's disappointed face.

“I hope you're decent,” Ella said, startling him by coming in unannounced.

“Would it hurt you to knock on the door _for once_?” Malcolm asked, though he knew it was a lost cause. Ella had never been good at respecting privacy. Come to think of it, it wasn't a total surprise that she ended up doing what she did for a living.

Ella ignored the remark and said, “Because of your, shall we say, recent disagreement with Belle, I will be spell-checking your article.”

“You?” he asked, sitting up on his elbows, but not bothering to get off the bed.

“Yes,” she said, grimacing. “It was not my idea. I've been fighting it for hours, I've stated my case rather eloquently and presented all the reasons why this is a bad idea but, apparently, rock smashes scissors. It's a one time thing, though. Next time, you better learn how to type.”

“I know how to type.”

“I'll be the judge of that. Did you revise it?”

“Extensively,” he lied. He'd always hated revising his own writing. It only made him feel self-conscious, and there was always a damn mistake that wouldn't be spotted until it was too late. “I'll email it to you.”

“Great. Just came here to let you know.”

“I'm surprised you didn't text.”

“I did. Five times. You ignored them all.”

“Polite people give news in person,” he said. “I'm sure mom taught you that. I take it she's still mad at me.”

“Who?”

Malcolm said the name “Miss French” with utter contempt. Miss French, the stubborn girl who couldn't see her own irrelevancy. Miss French, who made the whole thing into a fight and then spent the rest of the day invading _his_ thoughts and making him feel – dare he say it? - _guilty_ for doing his job. Why couldn't Ella just hire a nice, subservient, brain-dead girl, you know, one that fit the whole millennium generation stereotype and who'd be dazzled at seeing the back of her head in the papers?

“Mad might be an understatement,” Ella admitted, as her brother walked from the bed to the desk where his lap top was. “Mal said that... _hurt..._ is more appropriate for the occasion. Though I believe that girl is overreacting.”

“Ha!” Malcolm said. “For once we are in agreement.”

“She gives herself far too much importance.”

“That's what I said!” he said, happy that someone understood his side of the story. Even if that person was Ella. “And she's worried someone might remember that picture someday, I mean, that is just moronic.”

Ella cackled. “Did she actually say that? Good lord, publishing this will be the wake-up call this girl needs. She needs to understand her place in this business.”

“Exactly. She's the iced tea girl.”

“Yes, we all have to grow up and learn our limitations.”

“Indeed.”

“She'll come out of this more cynical and smarter.”

“I am doing her a favor, come to think of it.”

“Like you did.”

“I'm sorry, what?” Malcolm asked, his head snapping around to look at his sister.

“You know... from all that silliness about being a writer,” Ella said. “Remember? You quit Law School, moved to London, and nearly gave dad a heart-attack.”

Malcolm blinked at his sister. “That was _different_. Miss French was being unreasonable-”

“Yes, because she's a silly girl who's entertaining fantasies of making it in New York City. She probably thinks someone will actually remember her face some day, and that this picture might come back to haunt her.” Ella cackled again. “Isn't that the funniest thing?”

“It's... hysterical,” he said, though he wasn't laughing.

“Can you _imagine_ how your life would've turned out if you had pursued _your_ silly dreams instead of coming home like dad told you to?”

“Right. Silly dreams.”

“Belle has to reassess her priorities and her own dreams. Like you did.”

“Right. Reassess.”

“Because this is what mature grown ups do,” Ella concluded. “And what better time to come down to earth than when we can use that to sell newspapers?”

She stared at him with a sparkling smile.

Malcolm stared right back.

“Little big brother, this chat's been wonderful, but if you could just email your article to me, instead of-”

“Right, right,” he said, turning back to his laptop. Then he looked at Ella again. “I'm just going to revise it one last time.”

“Perfectionist,” Ella said, approvingly. “That's a good thing to be. Take your time, you do have an extra day, after all.”

Ella left his bedroom, seemingly in a good mood.

Gold stared at the door, her words playing on a loop in his head.

 

*

 

Belle was back on Friday morning because there was no way around it. A party had been planned for Saturday night and no one leaves Ella Gold understaffed when there is a big event about to happen. There were several items in a special checklist that Ella put together just for the occasion that Belle was supposed to start going over as soon as she arrived. Malcolm found her as she crossed item number one: serve iced tea for the Queens. Important stuff.

Ella, Mal and Ursula had sprawled themselves on the living room couch, a light drizzle having scared them away from the balcony. Belle ran around, pampering to their every wish. When he came into the room, she only glared in his direction for the fraction of a second before ignoring him completely. Nothing was forgotten or forgiven, and if he _dared_ mention the words “spell-checking” she might actually throw the iced tea in his face.

He wished everyone a good morning. The Queens smiled and nodded and hummed in acknowledgment. Belle actually let out a discreet growling that made his blood boil. Why was he doing _this_ again? Because if the answer was “out of guilt for the growling girl” it didn't seem like such a good cause after all.

Ella interrupted his thinking by asking, “Malcolm, dear, can you turn your head the other way.”

“Why?” he asked back, full of mistrust.

“It's just turning your head. Why does that have to be a fight?”

“ _Why_?”

“I just want the girls' opinion on your tan.”

“For the last time, Ella, I am _not_ getting a spray tan!”

“Fine! I suppose you don't want the suit I picked out for you, as well.”

“You assume-”

“It's Zegna.”

Gold paused in time to change his answer, “I'm willing to let this one slide.”

He saw Belle roll her eyes, as if to say, _Poor rich guy, so many_ real _problems, not like me, oh no, I am only about to lose my fiance and my reputation, but he has to spray tan and wear designer suits_.

Ella got off the couch. “Good, because what you are wearing is _not_ appropriate for tonight.”

“Yes, but before we go, I wanted to talk the three of you. Well, four.”

Belle dropped the tray she'd been carrying loudly on the coffee table and announced, “I'll go get the tea cakes.”

“Don't be difficult, Miss French. I'm pulling the article.”

Belle stopped on her heels and stared at him, awaiting for Malcom to start cackling like a perfect cartoon villain and take it all back.

When he didn't, she said, “I'm sorry, what?”

“Yes,” Ella demanded. _“What?”_

“I'm pulling the article. I wrote something else, and I think it's better.”

“Malcolm, we already agreed on the first one,” Ursula said, sounding even more annoyed than Ella. “You can't just change your article 24 hours before the deadline and expect us to just go with it.”

“Especially not because, what? You don't want to hurt the help's feelings?” Ella pointed at Belle.

Malcolm said, “I didn't do it because of Miss French. I did it because Mal is right. We are a bunch of immoral, fame seeking vultures who are up to no good.”

In the silence that followed, Mal raised her hand, “Uhn, I'm sorry. I think the word I used was _snakes_.”

“I might be paraphrasing. What I mean is that we are going to be doing a lot of terrible things and stabbing other people in the back. We need to at least trust each other. And that should include the help. And the paparazzi. But don't tell him I said that. He's already under the impression that we're 'friends'.”

Ella dropped back on the couch, frustrated. “Wonderful, so we lose a very good article because you've decided to develop scruples after a lifetime of having none. And may I ask what are you going to replace it with?”

Malcolm sighed and handed out his new writing. Three copies, extensively revised (well, revised twice, any more than that would drive him insane) and ready for printing. Belle rushed to stand behind Mal and read over her shoulder. For a moment, no one said a word. And then, there was a collective explosion of laughter, even Belle dared to join in. He thought that would happen. That was the point of it, after all. Still, his face turned red.

“I know this is a positive reaction,” he said. “But can you tone it down a notch?”

“You wrote a story entitled 'Sexless Brother In The City', I am never toning down a notch, little big brother.”

“What is the main plot?” Mal asked.

Malcolm sighed and recited, “Infamous socialite Ella Gold, in an outburst of mercy, took in her older brother after he was kicked out of town by his wife because he,” Malcolm cleared his throat, “refused to fulfill his husbandly duties for a year.”

“Is this true?” Mal asked, full of pity.

“No!”

“It's okay if it is,” she insisted, and actually patted his hand. “There is no shame in impotence. We should break the silence regarding-”

He pulled his hand away. “For the love of- I'm not impotent! This is gossip!”

“Malcolm, I understand the pressure of toxic masculinity, but unless we face these issues head on-”

“How do I get her to stop?” he asked Ursula.

“You don't,” she said, eyes glued on the article. “Just let her say her piece and move on.”

“But it's _not_ true! And it's the best I could do on such a short notice.”

“It's _amazing_!” Ella said. “You even kept the line about the money. And there are so many euphemisms for 'penis' in this it's like writing a bad paperback erotica, but with wit. I love every line of it. Maybe you were right, girls. Maybe my brother does have talent.”

“Yeah, and hey! If this line of work doesn't pan out, you can always write paperback erotica,” Ursula suggested.

Malcolm grunted. “When are the jokes going to stop?”

“We'll give you a couple of weeks notice when that day comes. I'll go phone the editor before you change your mind,” Ella said, jumping out of the couch and running away.

“I'll call Jefferson,” Ursula followed. “If we get a picture of you and a young woman, it will make it sound more ironic.”

“I'll call my husband,” Mal finished, also getting up from the couch, her face grave. “He knows a couple of doctors that might be of assistance.”

“This – is – _gossip_!” he shouted after her, as the three of them disappeared.

He was left with Belle, who was standing behind the couch, hands folded in front of her body and a look of relief on her face.

“This is the part where you say that you're glad I've learned my lesson and that you won't allow that I put myself through such humiliation.”

Belle gave him the tiniest smile. “Humiliation builds character.”

Malcolm tried not to smile back, but he couldn't help it. The girl was brave, he had to give her that.

“You didn't have to do this, you know,” she said. “I do appreciate it.”

Malcolm dropped on couch, “How wonderful, I got the secretary's appreciation.”

She didn't seem offended by his rudeness, but she still remarked, “You're a difficult guy to like, aren't you?”

“I don't need you to like me, Miss French. I need you to work with me. After all, you do make good tea.”

“Well, I have a peace offering of my own. I wasn't going to tell you this, but since you're pulling the article...” Belle walked around the couch and sat down on the opposite corner, leaving a large space between them. “Do you know why your sister wanted to write as Cruella de Vil?”

“Because her name is Ella.”

“That was actually a fortunate coincidence. She wanted to write as Cruella de Vil because she loves fashion. She lives for it. And I dare say, if she thought spots looked good on her, she'd stop at nothing to make a Dalmatian coat.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Miss Carroll loves to sing,” Belle continued. “It's her true passion. But she also loves Law. The Sea Witch, both in the original story and in the Disney version, makes a living making deals with the merfolk.”

“Didn't she cheat most of them out of their soul?”

“See, you chose the right lawyer.”

Despite himself, Malcolm chuckled. “Aye, maybe you're right. So, how does Mal identify with a fire breathing dragon?”

“The new Maleficent movie is known for not passing the reverse Bechdel test. She also said she's happy to see the evil witch being portrayed as a nurturing, motherly figure who gets a happy ending through a redemption arc, instead of getting permanently jealous of a baby. And that she appreciates all female relationships, both in this movie and the original Disney cartoon.”

When Malcolm seemed confused, Belle said, “She's a feminist activist, these things matter to her. By the way, never tell her Frozen was the first feminist Disney movie. You'll get your ass handed back to you.”

“Dully noted.”

“But you see, they've chosen names that they feel a special connection to. With that in mind, I asked your sister a few questions and she said you are rather good at manual crafts.”

“She might have exaggerated.”

“So you don't own a spinning wheel?”

“No.”

“Do you own two?”

“...I might.”

“Then congratulations! You are to be known as Rumpelstiltskin, the one who spins tales into gold.”

Malcolm frowned at her, the word “no” on the tip of his tongue. But then he thought about it for longer than a second and decided, “That is actually rather brilliant.”

“Isn't it? And just because you've been kind enough to change your article, I'll let you claim it was your idea.”

He smiled at her. “Thank you, Miss French. I'll go let them know.”

He started to leave, but turned back.

“Uhn, when you were talking to my sister, just how much did she tell you?”

Her warm smile became a smirk. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

“Right. I have a feeling this will come back to bite me in the arse.”

“Indeed,” Belle nodded. “Just like your sister's bunny.”

 

 


End file.
